


Kinktober 2020 Promptfill

by PinupGhoul



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas, Hannibal (TV), The Magnus Archives (Podcast), The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Asphyxiation, Awkwardness, Bad Puns, Banter, Begging, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Coming In Pants, Cosplay, Cunnilingus, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Face-Sitting, First Time, Foursome - F/F/M/M, Frottage, Ghouls, Hate Sex, Hickeys, Implied Cannibalism, It/Its Pronouns For Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Lazy Sex, Lingerie, Love Bites, M/M, Marking, Mental Health Issues, Mental Link, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Manipulation, Mirror Sex, Mirrors, Multi, Nude Modeling, Nude Photos, Oral Sex, Orgy, Partner Swapping, Radio, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Sexting, Spanking, Stockings, Synths, Voyeurism, Wax Play, Way Too Many Words About Hallways, Wire Play, wireplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 18,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26760322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinupGhoul/pseuds/PinupGhoul
Summary: The Kinktober challenge! Updates daily!
Relationships: Annabelle Cane/Helen Richardson, Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter, DiMA/Faraday (Fallout), Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Female Sole Survivor/Female Sole Survivor, Kent Connolly/Male Sole Survivor, Kent Connolly/Original Character(s), Kent Connolly/Sole Survivor, LonelyEyes - Relationship, Magnolia/Nick Valentine, Male Sole Survivor/Piper Wright, Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives)/Reader, Michael | The Distortion/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Paladin Danse/Hancock/OFC/OFC, Paladin Danse/John Hancock (Fallout), Pickman/Female Sole Survivor, Pickman/Sole Survivor (Fallout), Porter Gage & Raider Character(s), Porter Gage/Female Nuka-World Overboss, Porter Gage/Original Female Character(s), Sole Survivor/Piper Wright
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61





	1. First Time

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Buckle up--here we go again
> 
> Prompts are from Zaidee (Eyrine) on tumblr
> 
> tags will update every day, so be mindful of those
> 
> Also I love you <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: First Time  
> DiMA and Faraday

Repairs always took a toll on DiMA. Whether it was the sensation of wire cutters and screwdrivers against vulnerable panels, or simply the fear of something going wrong, his synthetic frame thrummed with tension. Faraday sat behind him, carefully picking through the looping wires of DiMA’s shoulder blade. The faintest hum of electricity buzzed against his fingers.

Just the two of them in the med bay, the cold seeping into his knees where he knelt, the rest of Acadia disappeared into the fog. Rain sprinkled against the observatory ceiling, a staccato beat over the steady whir of DiMA’s processor. His hands traced in practices motions over cords. Mobility, memory, temperature sensors. After years of quiet repairs, he knew each wire by heart, knew the kind of power DiMA put in his hands. Struck by the intimacy of the moment, Faraday sighed.

“You’re very quiet,” DiMA said, his voice slow and even.

The other man shook himself from his trance. “Hmm? Oh. Just...focusing.” On all the wrong things, as usual. What had begun as helpful had become routine, then a ritual, and now? Now Faraday actively looked forward to their repair sessions. The chance to be alone with DiMA, to run his hands along the complicated metal landscape of his back, filled his heart so much it ached. If this was the closest thing to intimacy he got, so be it.

“You’re overexerting yourself. Too much additional memory storage is rerouting power away from interior functions,” he explained, to avoid saying anything he meant.

“Is this your way of suggesting I take a break?”

“Doctor’s orders.”

“You know as well as I that I can’t. Acadia was never meant to be a stronghold. It was supposed—“ he ground his teeth “it was supposed to be a utopia. Our people are hiding like rats in the dark.”

Faraday quelled his reactions. The first was to comfort him, to smooth the tension from his frame. The second, less noble impulse was to gasp at the growl in his voice. There was no way DiMA was oblivious to his feelings, which only made the sting of his neutrality all the worse.

“I know. Just for a moment, at least. I can upgrade the attachments’ storage for you, but you may to have to shut down the auxiliaries for an hour or so. Trust me, I can figure it out.”

“My dear Faraday,” DiMA said, unfairly gentle, “I trust you with my life.”

For the next half hour, Faraday worked in torturous silence. Deft hands rerouted power, plugging in the additional memory units, while his mind wandered. The words burned through his tongue. What could he say? He had just about worked up the nerve to say something when DiMA let out a soft sound.

“Did I hurt you?” Pulling back immediately, his finger caught in a loop of wire.

DiMA hissed. “Not...in the slightest.”  
His tension increased, joints locked up.

Even without a human body, his body language was clear. Faraday’s face heated.

“I’m going to, I’m going to move over here and work on something else.”

A ticking filled the suddenly stuffy air, a clock marking on he awkward seconds, a bomb ready to blow. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

When Faraday glanced to his face, he wished he hadn’t. DiMA’s mouth pulled into a harsh line, brow ridge furrowed, coolant pumping fast and blue through the visible piping.

“It’s ok, I didn’t really notice. I mean, I noticed but—“ he bit his tongue quickly. “What I mean is you don’t need to be embarrassed.”

Moving to the work station, he said, “Sit on the counter, if you would. I’ll try to avoid any sensitive spots.” He cursed his gen-3 design. At least prototypes didn’t have the shame of a flushed face and shaking hands.

“Just the same, I’m terribly sorry to put you in that position. It was unprofessional.”

“I like being unprofessional with you.” It slipped out before he even processed the words.

He had to lift his face. At some point, he absolutely had to make eye contact. Frozen in place, he could only stare at his own hands as they uselessly fluttered over the tools on his table.

“Is that so?” A smile hung on DiMA’s words.

Slowly, Faraday raised his head. DiMA perched on the counter, his chest about level with Faraday’s gaze. From this position, he could clearly see the amused tilt of DiMA’s mouth.

If he reached out, tangled his hand in any of the myriad wires, he could pull DiMA down and capture him in a kiss. And for the briefest second, he imagined DiMA was thinking the same thing.

“I...” he sighed. “I’ve got to finish this up.” Coward, he accused himself. But standing so close, tucked between DiMA’s knees as he reached over to slide a panel out of the way, only worsened the problem.

He willed his body not to betray him, the solid warmth of DiMA’s quietly whirring mechanicals pressed against him. His hand reached out.

DiMA caught it in his own. “Faraday. What is it you want?”

Cold metal claws pressed so carefully into his palm, holding him lightly in place. His pulse flickered in his throat. “I want to help you.”

DiMA’s other hand bracketed his cheek. “You always help.” His cloudy blue eyes locked on the other man, examining him, curious and teasing in equal parts.

“Let me help you relax.” That sounded...more intense than he meant. Or, maybe exactly as intense as he meant it.

Despite the ragged silicone of DiMA’s face, the exposed wires and weathered lines, his expression was painfully tender. His thumb brushed Faraday’s lip, and that was his self control out the window.

DiMA bridged the gap before he could make a move though, leaning down to press their lips together, just a gentle pressure. A rogue spark skipped between them, sending shivers up his spine. He pulled him in hard, a firm but cautious grip on the wires entwining his shoulder.

Faraday couldn’t hold back a moan when DiMA’s fingers pierced the lapel of his lab coat, scrambling for traction. He didn’t anticipate it being so much.

He brushed a wire port, trying to find a better grip, and DiMA thrusted against him.

“How do I...?” Breathless, he pulled back.

Static hummed, tangible between them. “I don’t know,” DiMA admitted, laughing.

“Can I try?”

He tucked his head against the crook of Faraday’s neck and nodded fervently.

The low timbre of his moans reverberated against his sensitive neck. He bit his own lip hard to keep from crying out. “I think if I just...” he twisted a wire, some little harmless thing that wouldn’t do any real damage, and watched in rapture as DiMA arched.  
“Is that good?” He knew the answer, of course; he thought maybe he could finish just from hearing him answer. That stoic voice, wrecked with desire—it composed many of his late night fantasies. And here was the real thing beneath his hands.

“Faraday...yes...” his eyes were pinched shut. “There!”

He ground himself against DiMA’s thigh, maybe not the most dignified, but it still left him shaking, fingers growing clumsy in the wires, pulling and twisting with less thought and more need. He came with a gasp, surprising himself, clinging hard to his handful of wires.

DiMA’s hand clamped down on his bicep, held tight with the effort of keeping his control. Even like this, he tried so desperately not to hurt him.

“Let me,” Faraday panted, fighting through the haze. He pulled one wire free. Sucking one finger into his mouth, he wet it just enough that when he stuck it into the empty port, DiMA yelped.

The shock traveled the length of his arm, white hot, but the pain was instantly drowned out by the sound of his name, whispered like a prayer as DiMA came undone.  
The high pitched buzzing faded out into a startling silence. Then all at once, DiMA blinked back to reality.

With reality came embarrassment. Faraday looked away. “Are you alright?”

“I’m feeling much better. Is that part of routine maintenance?”

How was it possible Faraday could blush again? “It could be? If you wanted.”

Still seated atop the counter, he brushed his cheek, first with his hand, and then with his lips. “Oh,” he said, “I want.”


	2. Hickeys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Hickeys  
> Pickman and Sole Survivor Betty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may recognize Betty from some other stories I’ve done. Here she is again! And yes, Pickman’s first name has changed from my previous stuff. It’s just not fair to name someone Dick Pickman.

“The nightmares again?” Her voice was still clouded with ever-elusive sleep. She had been so close, only to have it pulled away at the last moment. 

At least he looked slightly ashamed of keeping her up. “Again.”

Holding out her arms, she pulled him to her, cuddling his head against her chest. The warmth of his body never failed to amaze her. His steely eyes and cold demeanor suggested he was made entirely of ice, clean and inhospitable like a hospital room. When she wrapped her arms around him, though, his heat melted through her anxiety-tight chest. 

“Same ones?” She blinked away the heaviness behind her eyes, opting instead to comb her fingers through his hair. Nearly as long as hers, but thicker and full of soft waves, his hair was wasted in a ponytail. She scratched along his scalp, short nails tracing patterns. 

“Want to forget,” he mumbled, his lips pressed to her neck. It could have been an accident, of course, a simple matter of their position, but she suspected it was on purpose. 

He rarely asked her, only hinted until she did the asking, a thoughtful sort of power to hand over to her. “Can I distract you?” 

He didn’t answer, instead pressing open mouthed kisses along the column of her throat. 

Betty sighed, tilting her head to give him better access. He focused on each freckle, laving his tongue over her sensitive skin. 

As far as distractions went, this was at the top of her list. If she had her way, they would never leave the bed, tangled together, doing nothing more than kissing for hours. 

His teeth grazed her pulse. Prey instincts bubbled to the surface; she flinched away for the briefest second before coming back to herself. Here in this new world, she was the monster people feared. She knew the taste of blood. Pickman, for all his violent murals, all his blood-soaked paintbrushes, didn’t speak the same language of blood as she did. She had taken it into herself, drank of it, made it a part of her.

Even with his soft lips teasing at her neck, turning the pale skin pink, then red, then purple, she knew he feared her. She traced his jaw with one finger as he bit at her skin, raising a welt. His hips stuttered against her thigh, seeking his pleasure as she kissed love into him, against his forehead, in his hair, along the bridge of his nose. 

Her breath caught when he bit down, worrying her skin between his teeth then pressing a kiss—like an apology—to the same spot. 

“How do you want it?” She asked, already dizzy with the closeness. The attention, from a man like him, still left her in starry-eyed disbelief. He, the Commonwealth’s most talented artist, serious and collected, deigned to bite at her neck and press himself to her thigh. And who was she, to earn the right? 

By morning, she knew, he would have thoroughly claimed her. Each little circle throbbed, blood brought to the surface. The collar of even her highest jacket wouldn’t cover the bruises. Nothing could be better. She thrilled to imagine walking around Diamond City, marks on display. She hummed happily. Everyone would know. They could see the evidence that Vincent Pickman loved her enough to prove it. 

She pictured the look on Nick’s face when he saw. Shock, disappointment, confusion. Little Betty, soft, gentle geek Betty who only cared for her library and her friends. Decorated in love bites from a serial killer. 

Vincent wasn’t exactly the type her friends wanted to see her with. If they knew—oh, if they understood even a part of it—they would worry for him. 

Nick himself had tried to set her up with Travis Miles. Somehow their awkwardness was supposed to balance each other out. And maybe in another world it would have, a world in which she was still that shrinking violet. But that’s all she let them see now. 

Her friends wouldn’t understand the power she’d touched. Not like Pickman understood. He knew about the voices in the blood, the quiet call, the promise of power. 

His hot breath against the shell of her ear snapped her back into her body. Shifting over her, he focused on her jawline, trailing down and leaving little pink marks, shallow, not bruising like the ones along the side. His hands fisted in the shirt she’d stolen from him.

She tucked her thigh tighter against him and he choked out a moan. He was close, she could tell by the rhythmless jerk of his hips, the way his kisses devolved into sloppy crashes of lips and tongue and teeth along her throat. 

Her glasses had long since fallen to the floor, hair escaping her ponytail, half-buttoned shirt falling low over her shoulder. Dizzy with love, skin buzzing with heat, she held him to her as he fell apart. 

His breath caught. He keened, too far gone to even mouth at her neck. A tremor wracked through him. Betty untangled his hand from her shirt and pressed kisses to his palm, guiding him through it until he stilled. “Better?”

He mumbled something that might have been “better” if he had the energy for words. Haphazardly thrown across her, he traced the blooming bruises with his fingertip. Two dark ones decorated the left side of her neck, a smaller one at the base of her throat, and little red marks filled in the space between. 

“Admiring your art?” 

“Red looks good on you.”

Betty huffed a laugh. “Of course you’d say that. I should be concerned, shouldn’t I?” There were so many things she should worry about. The world had ended. A new threat lurked around every corner, the wasteland’s constant competition to see what might kill her first. She shared her bed with a murderer, fearlessly, happily. She was no better, another monster lurking in the shadows of the Commonwealth. 

And yet, despite all of that, there was only room for one worry in her tired mind. “Do you think you can sleep?”


	3. Nudes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Nudes  
> Kent Connolly and my cute friend’s (wildmutfruit) cute ghoul OC, Abby

He cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, and hit the button that started the show. A trill of intro music snapped through the static.  
“Today I’ve got something real special for you, listeners: a nearly complete #11 issue from the Shroud/Dr. Brainwash mini-series.”

Kent fell into radio cadence easily, setting up the plot required to understand the latest episode. He remembered the plot of this one, names of characters, their motivations, some scattered bits of dialogue. Not his favorite arc, by far, but it was only missing a couple pages. By wasteland standards, that was mint condition. 

The notes he scribbled that morning sat in a neat pile on the desk. He hadn’t had much time before the show to get everything together, gladly distracted by Abby. 

The only problem in all their whirlwind relationship was how easily he lost track of time with her. Ever since the equally shy ghoul woman made her way to Goodneighbor, Kent felt he never had enough time in the day to spend with her. They’d both survived two hundred years alone; it would have been a heartbeat in her arms, never long enough. 

But today she was visiting with Hancock, her first friend in the irradiated world. Just a friend, he reminded himself, when the cold tendrils of jealousy threatened to sneak in. He had, well...a face for radio. He didn’t have half of Hancock’s easygoing charisma, but Abby loved him, and that made him the luckiest man who ever lived. 

Kent stalled out around halfway through, getting lost somewhere around the interrogation scene. He shuffled his notes.  
“And the mad doctor raised his hand into a fist of triumph and said—“

One page floated free from the note stack, making a lazy loop before settling on the desk, face up. He stopped. It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t. 

But there before him was the undeniable proof. A photo of Abby, wrapped loosely in the Shroud coat, smiled up at him. The hat perched atop her blonde wig, brim casting a shadow over her nervous smile. The coat’s lapel dipped down over her shoulder, revealing that she wore nothing beneath it. 

His breath fluttered. His Abby, please-turn-off-the-lights-before-we-make-love Abby, she had left this here for him. And maybe, he hoped, for herself. 

All at once, he remembered he was on air. “Oh, uh. The mad doctor raised his hand, his um...”

What did he do with his notes? The entire stack, he realized, were photos. A series of Abby posing in costume. His eyes went wide. 

Stammering through what should have been a dramatic story moment, he turned each one over, slowly. Ten in total. They told a story, Abby starting out shy and questioning, then growing bolder. 

At first she demurely tipped the coat down her shoulders, baring a little rough skin, her platinum curls just brushing her neck. He could feel it between his fingers, imagined brushing it out of her face, the warm of her against him. 

He swallowed hard, examining the next one, still trying to keep up the pretense of the broadcast. The few fans of the show deserved their episode, after all.

Her smile grew more confident as the coat slid down, teasing the swell of her breasts. 

Kent bit his lip. God, she looked fantastic like this, a little sexy pout showing off her cute dimples. The first time he’d gone to kiss her, he missed, bumping against the corner of her mouth. She had laughed, that bubbly giggle that quickly became his favorite sound. 

Where has she found a camera? This obviously took some planning. The idea of her, setting up a timer, posing and making eyes at the camera—the effort of it all, and for him—

“Oh. Right. Some s-slight technical difficulties, listeners. No need to worry.”  
Focus, Kent. 

That plan failed as soon as he made it. In the next couple photos, Abby opened the coat, letting it pool over her lap. His eyes traced the path he’d mapped with his hands a few nights previous, in the cozy confines of his Memory Den room. Down over her collarbones, across her sternum, nervous and excited and overwhelmed as she took his hands and brought them to her breasts. He’d spent hours pressing kisses into the divots of her skin, mapping the trails of raised scar tissue. 

Photo-Abby stared back at him, a coy glint in her dark eyes. No wonder she’d gone out today, likely too self-conscious to look at him face to face. He felt her absence like a pinch in his heart. 

She smiled more openly in each successive photo, leaning back a little, emphasizing the slight curves she’d somehow managed to keep. And there was another, legs crossed, the top of her thigh peeking from beneath the edge of the coat. 

“Listeners, I...oh!” He moaned aloud, for forgetting where he was as he saw the last photo. 

He ground his palm between his legs, trying to hold back and only succeeding in making it worse. Everyone heard that, didn’t they? Was Abby listening, hiding out somewhere to await his reaction? His face went hot. 

She beamed at him, free and beautiful, glowing. Her hat tilted down to cover one eye, the other looking at him knowingly. Her legs spread wide, more on display than he’d ever seen her, hands strategically hiding her sex. Was she touching herself, or was that just a suggestion of his lust addled mind? 

He had to end this broadcast, before anything truly shameful happened. “This is Kent Connolly, calling the Mistress Of Mystery. For, uh, some very serious conspiring. A s-secret mission.”

Flicking off the radio, he sat back in his desk chair, face flushed, painfully hard. She knew the kind of power she held over him, knew how to get him to the edge within moments. 

He clamped his hand over his mouth to stifle any accidental sounds, trying to breathe slowly. She would be back soon, especially if she was listening to the radio. He could hold on that long. 

And when she arrived? He didn’t know if it was possible to show her just how much he appreciated her, how beautiful she was, but he figured he had at least a good few centuries to try.


	4. Face-Sitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Face-Sitting  
> Piper Wright and Sole Survivor Danny

Danny popped his signature sunglasses off and set them on top of the printing press. Catching Piper’s eye, he flashed her a cocky grin before exaggeratedly wiping his face on the hem of his t-shirt. 

She frowned, trying to puzzle him out. He rarely took off the glasses, even inside, for no reason other than ‘it looked cool’. His words, not hers. “What are you doing?”

He stopped, raising his eyebrow in that way he did when he was about to do something stupid. “I’m wiping down your seat.”

“Oh my god, Danny!” 

“What? It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Has that line ever worked for you? For anybody?” Despite herself, she laughed. “There are better ways to get me in bed, you know.”

“Such as?” He tugged his shirt off. They never had much time for this, either on the run from the wasteland’s worst, or trying to find a second when Nat wasn’t around.  
Now, stashed away in Publick Occurrences, safe in the knowledge that Nat would still be at the Schoolhouse for a few hours, they had the perfect opportunity.

“Such as romance. Ever heard of it? Flowers, dinner, dancing?” Her argument lost all effectiveness as she threw herself into his arms, shrugging out of her coat and crashing their lips together. 

His plump lips teased at hers like they had all the time in the world. At the same time, his hands frantically worked to get them both undressed. 

“Been thinking about this all day,” he groaned, pulling her against his chest. He squeezed her ass. 

Piper pulled his lip between her teeth, snaking her hand down to palm him through his briefs. He stroked her hair, getting as close as possible.

She pulled back. “What you said, was that all talk?” Confident and clumsy, Danny was the king of making promises he couldn’t keep. As a good reporter, she needed to ask the tough questions. 

“Not if you didn’t want it to be.” He paused. “That sounded smoother in my head.”

“Come on.” 

Upstairs, Piper guided him back onto the bed. He instinctively undressed the rest of the way, kicking off his underwear. 

“Are you posing?” She couldn’t take him seriously, this strangely handsome pre-war man in her bed. He looked just like one of those ads in a Live & Love magazine.

Blond, muscular, square jaw dotted with stubble, he lay back with one hand braced behind his head. His cock swelled under her intense gaze. “Why, is it working for you?” He laughed, and she laughed along.

Carefully straddling his chest, she bent double to kiss him again. He grabbed her hips with greedy hands, ducking down to kiss and nip her inner thigh. “Scoot up. I wanna taste you.”

How could she argue with that? Piper settled over his mouth, his hot breath sending shivers over her skin. “Know what you’re doing, Blue?”

He didn’t answer with words, instead pulling her down to press a wet kiss to her folds. Danny parted her with his tongue, swiping a long stripe up to her clit. 

Her hips spasmed. That answered that question. 

“Do that again!”

He tongued her like he couldn’t get enough, gliding through wet curls, teasing at pressing inside. 

She squirmed, trying not to swivel her hips too hard. Gravity pulled her down onto him, letting him reach impossibly deeper with every pointed thrust of his tongue. Her breath came in laboured pants, quiet moans drawn from her with every skilled motion. 

Danny’s fingers clasped around her hips, bringing her down onto his waiting mouth, helping her set a rhythm. 

“Slow down, I’m going to—“ She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. 

He pulled off of her with a sloppy sound. Beaming up at her, half his face shining with slick, he gave her a thumbs up. 

“Let me,” he drew in a ragged breath, “know when you’re ready to keep going.”

His cock jutted, red and neglected between his thighs. She could just barely reach the head, giving her wrist a little twist. He jerked up, burying his face into her again. 

To his credit, he didn’t move until she said, “Please! Oh god Danny!”

He smirked against her sex, tracing patterns in lazy circles around her clit, down with the flat of his tongue, up with the point. 

Piper felt electric. Part of her worried she might suffocate him, grinding down, so wet she could barely stay in place. 

He gave up on using just his tongue, haw stretched to the limit, squat nose bumping her nub as he guided her to rock back and forth. Wet, messy strokes had her desperately seeking that last little bit of friction to bring her over the edge. She played with her breasts, thumbing her nipples as her hips lost their rhythm. 

She was soaked, dripping down his cheek. 

His large hand held her thighs open further. 

“Ha-ah!” All words left her, core tightening, a hand tangled in her own hair just for something to hold onto. 

He found her clit and sucked hard. 

And just like that, pleasure dragged her under. She screamed, thighs clenching around his head. The world went white. All she felt was his mouth still on her, stroking her through it. 

When the overstimulation became too much, she climbed off him. Her legs wavered. “Are you ok?”

Danny wiped his mouth on his arm. He laughed, “That was pretty much the best idea I’ve ever had.”

It was hard to argue, words getting lost in her spinning head. “There’s still a small issue to take care of.” She leaned over him, kissing a line down his stomach. 

“Now, hold on!”

“Hmm?”

“More like an above average issue. An impressive issue. A—mmmm!”

Whatever he might have said next was quickly cut off as she took him in her mouth. He let her set the pace, content to fall breathlessly back onto the mattress, his eyes rolling back. 

Yes—Piper agreed silently, flushed and sated—this was pretty much the best idea he had ever had.


	5. Asphyxiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Asphyxiation   
> Danse and Hancock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, this doesn’t start in a sexual setting, so really it’s just violence turned horny. Be aware if that dynamic bothers you

His back slammed against the wall, dust and bits of crumbling brick raining down on his tricorn hat. 

Paladin Danse gripped him by the shoulder, knuckles white and face red with rage. “What is your problem?”

Hancock only grinned, sharp as a knife. It was so hard not to wind him up. Out here on a ‘Minutemen recon mission’ or whatever the hell that little Vault kid called it, he had to find his own fun. Something about the stiff Brotherhood tin can really got to him. Well, not ‘something’, everything. 

In their two weeks traveling together, Danse took every opportunity to cut down super mutants, feral ghouls, gen-2s, anything not human that crossed his path. Now, Hancock had no love for ferals either, but there was a line. For him, that was anything that didn’t fight back. No sense wasting bullets, stirring up more trouble. Danse, on the other hand, shot down anything and everything, running in in that clunky fucking armor. It was almost robotic: see, point, shoot. Make it clear Hancock was exactly the same as those poor saps in his eyes. 

So at every chance, Hancock made a point to give as good as he got. He’d just finished a particularly nasty rant about Elder Maxson and exactly how Danse had been promoted to Paladin, when he found himself with his back to the wall. 

“You, asshole. You’re my problem.”

“What’s to stop me from eradicating you right now? The world would be better off.”

Oh, he’d pushed him too far this time. Perfect. He thrilled at the chance to do some real damage. Take him down, rough him up a little. 

Now, that was an image. Danse on his knees, sweaty from a fight, begging Hancock not to just kill him right there. Fuck. Ok. Hell of a time for his body to start reacting.

The gloved fist of his power armor closed around his neck, not tight enough to cut off his airflow, just hovering in a clear threat.

“I could destroy you.” Danse reminded him.

Hancock flashed his best coquettish smile. “Oh baby, you promise?”

Danse snarled. He shoved him back, closing the cold metal gauntlet around his windpipe. 

Hancock gasped a desperate breath before he couldn’t. If Danse really squeezed, it would be over for him. And yet he only held him hard enough to hurt. 

His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, trying to pull anything in and failing. Danse wouldn’t kill him, not now. Not out here in the middle of the wastes where his commanding Vault Dweller Knight would find out. If Danse could do anything, it was follow orders. 

But even the knowledge of relative safety couldn’t convince his body not to panic. Pinpricks of darkness snuck into his peripheral, making the world fade like an old photo. The initial surprise built, flaring up into adrenaline. If only he had some Jet to draw this moment out into dizzying eternity. 

His face felt warm, thoughts coming sluggishly to the surface then popping like bubbles. 

Danse breathed hard through the vocoder of his helmet, conviction written into every hard line of his stance. He flexed his hand, forcing a squeak out of Hancock. “Shut up. For once in your worthless life, just shut up.”

All the blood that wasn’t coloring his face rushed downward. The pressure of Danse’s heavy armored body against him only got him there so much faster. He rolled his hips, even as his hands clung to the glove, trying to pry it free. He didn’t know what he wanted more, a lungful of air or release.

“Gotta...try harder,” he choked, “than that to...ah...kill me.”

The effort of forcing words out made his chest burn. The blackness claimed more of his vision, leaving everything a little fuzzy on the edges. 

He fought for breath, fought to stay upright, leaning hard into the other man’s grip. It wasn’t fair how hard he was, mindlessly thrusting against nothing. If Danse just left him like this, he’d have to file a formal complaint with the Brotherhood. Cruel and unusual punishment, that’s what this was. He wanted more. 

“Danse...” he fought just to speak, throat convulsing under his tightening grip. “...please.”

“Ah!” Danse tried to stifle his moan too late. He locked up, like if he held still, Hancock wouldn’t notice how this was affecting him.

Hancock let his eyes close, head swimming, drunk on the sound of Danse’s low voice and the lack of oxygen. Nothing made sense any more; all he knew was the heat and the impending darkness. Rationally, he knew he needed to fight, to breathe before he fell unconscious, but he couldn’t find the effort. And more than that, he didn’t want to stop.

Just when the world had narrowed to a tiny dot, Danse pulled back. Hancock’s hand flew to his throat, massaging the finger shaped indents as he gasped in air. He wheezed, bracing himself against the wall with one hand as he fought his way back to sense. When his vision cleared, he   
looked to Danse.

“You disgusting freak. I should have known you would be so depraved,” Danse’s voice shook. He kept looking at his hand, as though it had been dirtied from touching him. 

“Aww, Dansey,” his voice was rougher than usual, “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

Danse floundered. He clearly didn’t have an answer for that. He fixed him with one last glare, visible even through the helmet, and left him there. 

As soon as Danse disappeared around the corner, he slumped against the wall, sucking in air. A pounding headache blossomed behind his eyes, but he shut it out in favor of taking care of his throbbing erection. 

Unlooping his flag belt, he shoved his hand into his pants, stroking himself off to the memory of Danse’s broken moan. Try as he might to remain stoic, there was definitely something there. Maybe they could explore that, get him all hot and bothered again, anything to get him to sound that flustered again.

He cursed as he came, throat raw from ragged breaths. At least now he knew exactly how to make this mission a little more interesting.


	6. Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: Mirrors  
> Michael and Unnamed Female Narrator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for shaky mental health in this chapter. It’s pretty Spiral-typical. Be warned

One foot in front of the other, she reminded herself, don’t step in the grate or you’ll snap your ankle in half. What was she thinking, wearing these ridiculous heels? No, that wasn’t fair. She knew exactly what she was doing. 

In the last two hours, she’d drunk her month’s rent money in jack and coke, pushing herself into the crowd of dancers in the dingy club, hoping her sloppy dancing and low cut dress landed her some company for the night. Sure, she got fucked, but not in that way. Life had a way of screwing her over lately, then kicking her when she was down.

Don’t be such a dramatic bitch, she thought, still carefully stepping down the uneven pavement toward her flat. It’s only a failed job interview. So what if she’d crossed the ocean to get here, so what if she was nearly out of money and had absolutely nowhere to run back to. 

“Unfortunately, your resume is severely lacking.” That’s what that self-righteous Institute Director told her. “I simply cannot hire you.”

Admittedly it had been a long shot, assuming the Director would hire her on just because the Head Archivist seemed impressed by her enthusiasm on the phone. He had sounded so sure, though. Something about how ‘no one ever gets turned away if they’re willing to serve’. 

Yeah, right. She’d been studying the paranormal for her entire life. If anyone was willing to serve, that’s her.

She kicked at a pebble, but slipped, landing hard on the wet ground. Stupid useless shoes. Stupid useless Magnus Institute. Stupid useless day. 

At least she wasn’t far from her flat where she could change out of her dirty wet dress and sleep off the alcohol. Maybe it would be enough to dull the weird dreams she’d been having lately. 

She took the elevator to her floor and when she reached her place, she flung herself in, immediately kicking off her now-scuffed heels and dropping her purse on the bright yellow shag carpet.

She blinked. The what? 

Oh shit. Never before had she been so drunk she went into someone else’s flat. “Sorry, I’m leaving.”

The door wouldn’t open. She jiggled the knob, but it didn’t move. “Look, I’m super tired. I just want to go home.”

This had horror movie written all over it. She grabbed the pepper spray from her purse, holding it like a talisman. Well, if it was a bad movie, the best thing was to stay right where she was. Trying to blink away the haze, she turned her dizzy eyes to the long hallway before her. 

What kind of place was this? Surely the span of it wouldn’t fit in her building. And the decor? The walls shifted between rich purple and green. Like an iridescent beetle. As soon as she thought it, pain shot through her forehead. It passed as quickly as it came. 

She must have hit her head when fell. This was all some elaborate hallucination. Tracing the wall, she found it solid. Mirrors lined both sides, stretching on into an impossible distance. “So,” she said to the hallway, “either I’m concussed, or this is the real deal.”

Her heart raced. For a moment, the halls seemed to draw in closer, as if holding their breath. 

Then she smiled. Ha! Take that, Institute! She didn’t need them to have her own paranormal experience. This was really happening. Her phone—she needed to film this. 

Yes, the corridor definitely moved. It pulled back now, like it had examined her and found her wanting. 

Cool, she thought. Rejected by a weird hallway. Why not? 

Every step forward felt like walking on shifting sand. The carpet, thick beneath her bare feet, grabbed at her as she went deeper. Her twisting reflection watched her from the innumerable mirrors, funhouse distorted, stretching and shrinking her. Her short hair shifted into tight curls. 

She touched it. Her real hair had twisted to match. Frantically checking herself over, she found everything else was still normal. A new tear split the hem of her dress, and little bits of gravel stuck in her knee. More evidence this wasn’t a concussion, or even just a weird dream. Maybe a side effect of her meds? 

Oh, shit. They were still in her purse in the foyer. She walked back the way she came but there was nothing there, just more mirrors, and a hall that ended in a blank wall. Huh. 

Nothing strange showed up on her camera, just a video of her walking down the same hall. She hadn’t turned at all, so she couldn’t be going the wrong way. 

Her feet ached from pointless wandering. The spinning in her vision forced her to sit for a moment. “Ok,” she said, “weird changing halls. They definitely know I’m here somehow. Lots of mirrors.” If this place was trying to hurt her, it wasn’t doing a great job. Mostly she just felt exhausted. The shifting patterns of the walls hypnotized her into sleep.

She woke with a dizzying headache, cheek pressed against unbelievably soft carpet. The wild colours made her eyes unfocus. “Good morning, cursed hallway.”

Sobered up and surprisingly well rested, she tried again to find her way back to the door. At the very least, she wanted her meds and the granola bar in her purse. Though, come to think of it, she wasn’t hungry. She didn’t even need to pee. Time probably passed differently in This Realm. It seemed like A Realm. 

Every turn brought her to a new door, each one pale yellow and engraved with delicate spirals. She ran her finger over the design, and the door opened, a draft of warm air brushing past her like a sigh. 

At some point, it stopped feeling like a place, and more like a person. The walls watched her, judging each door she chose, watching—

She hissed, that pain flaring up once more, an icepick to the brain. Twice as bad, this time, splitting her brain in half. What did it mean? 

“If I go left every time,” she reasoned, talking to her strange reflections as she passed, “I can’t get lost. I’ll just keep on walking in a big circle, until the halls get smaller and smaller, and I end up looking like you.” She pointed at her thin, stretched doppelgänger in the mirror. “It happened in a thing I read once.”

At the next door, she traced the spiral again and got the same response. It was nice, really, like the weird corridors were pleased to see her. It leaned into her touch. Or maybe it just seemed like it did.

Back, in the before-times, she used to lie on the floor and stare at the outdated ceiling light in her tiny room, listening to her music so loud the headphones blasted only static. Shapes moved in and out of the light, squirming, spinning, breaking off and forming together like germs in a Petri dish. It pulsed almost in time with her music. No one else saw it, of course. 

The halls had the same effect, oil-spill rainbows glinting through the labyrinth. She dragged her fingertips along the walls. At least they weren’t getting any narrower. Her stomach dropped even thinking about them closing in on her. If she had to crawl along to get through, she’d just give up. Her chest felt tight with anxiety, just as that sharp jab flashed between her eyes. 

“Alright, knock it off!” She shouted to the empty air. 

Down at the far end of the hallway, she saw a dart of motion. Now you’ve done it. Pissed off the ghost. “Hello?”

Oh fuck. Someone stood there, silhouetted in a doorway, proportions all...wrong. Its arms brushed the floor, head bent at an unnatural angle to fit in the door. 

Well, this is it. Death by slenderman. Cool. Her body froze. Her mind did the opposite, softening and melting like a pat of butter. She wasn’t afraid, just calm. Accepting. In this life, all she wanted was the strange and wonderful. 

“Do you live here? Who are you?”

“Do I live here?” 

At first, she thought it was an echo, her own voice twisted back higher and oddly accented. It came from right behind her and so far away. 

“I AM here.”

And just like that, the figure was directly in front of her. 

“Right. I...uh...”

It loomed before her, the ceiling shifting to make room for its height. Electric yellow curls spun off in wild directions, flowing over a face that ebbed and flowed like a mirage. 

She tried to focus on bright blue eyes, but they spun and glitched. Her head ached. 

Long, spindly hands with far too many knuckles hovered beside the shape, sometimes connected, sometimes free-floating. 

The only thing that held still long enough for her to understand it was a Cheshire Cat smile, curled at the corners.

Shaped like a child’s drawing of a person, run through a shredder and reassembled, it was oddly...hypnotic. Beautiful. She’d had dreams that looked similar, all bright colours and fractals, a bad trip come to life. 

“But you can call me Michael, if you like.”

Michael. Such a normal name for such an astonishingly abnormal being. “And if I don’t like?” 

It laughed then, that same too close, too far away sound. TV static, nails on a chalkboard, lemon and battery acid on her tongue. It sighed and tilted its head at an angle that made her own ache in sympathy. “Silly thing, nothing scares you, does it?”

Of course things scared her. She was terrified of everything, at every moment of every day. But this sparkling illusion standing before her? “So far this is the best thing that’s happened to me all night. Were you planning on killing me, or...?”

It shifted toward her, long fingers clutching her shoulder. The soft skin of her upper arm sank in, then split beneath the knife-like fingers. Blood welled up, running in a slow line and pooling at the inside of her elbow. She glared. 

“Poor darling,” it cooed, tipping her chin up to examine her. “Trying so hard to be brave. I think she’s a liar~” That high voice wavered in an electric sing-song.

“What do you want? What’s your whole deal here? Get me super lost, and then what?” Maybe not the best start to a scientific investigation, but it was something.

“Curiosity killed the cat.” Each ‘t’ fizzled into her brain. 

Her hand passed through the haze surrounding it, unable to settle on anything corporeal. 

Michael let go, and suddenly she faced the other wall, reality moving around them. Her reflection stared back at her, the two of them in a cloud of colour. A whisper of blond curls brushed her cheek, the only gentle closeness she’d felt in months. It shocked through her embarrassingly fast, skin pricking, the low static buzz filling her head. 

In the reflection, her eyes spun, miniature whirlpools draining away. Her form twisted, lengthening, leaning, spiraling. In a moment of clarity, she understood. It was an invitation. A chance to become something greater. 

And how could she let that chance pass her by? “But satisfaction brought it back.”

She spun around, face to face with the Entity. Her hands cupped its round face, the shape of it ever-changing beneath her fingers. It was so strangely soft, all of it the same soft shifting sand of the hallways. “That’s how the saying goes, isn’t it?”

The place where it’s face might have been spun out in a litany of pink. Flustered? She could work with that. 

“I’m not interested in staying,” she said, feigning confidence, “wherever this is.”

“Oh,” said Michael, high and pinched-voiced, three identical bodies overlapping and falling apart, “I don’t know that you have a choice.” Its laugh left her reeling. “Where else could you possibly go? Your own family sent you away. You know how they feel about you. It was so convenient just to pack you up and pretend to be proud. Think of the relief, getting rid of you. You could stay.”

Her heart beat a frantic rhythm. How could it know that? 

“They’re so much better off without you. Thriving, really. They hardly realised how much you wore them down until you left. And now they dread your calls. But you knew that.”

She crossed her arms, watching Michael attempt to...what exactly? Make her feel afraid? “Are you done?”

“Hmm.” It might have been an answer. It trailed cold hands down her neck absently, and she leaned into the touch. If she’d been chosen somehow, who was she to deny it? 

“If you’re trying to scare me, you can’t say anything I haven’t already said to myself. Listen, I get it. Things aren’t great in here.” She tapped her head. “But that doesn’t mean I’m afraid.”

Its hand closed over hers, pressing against her forehead. It didn’t hurt anymore. Her reflection watched them together, watched the slow trail of its sharp fingers along her neck, down to her collar. When had she turned to face the mirrors again? Did it matter? 

If she ignored her own reflection, it was really quite lovely. Michael filled her vision in neons, spinning the sanity from her mind. Her dress slid off her shoulders. 

Soft as a suggestion, a tease of a touch, Michael followed every inch of bared skin. It burned, hot and raw and frozen. She leaned into it. Being trapped here wasn’t ideal, but this...? This she very much liked. And that was the last thought in her mind before she surrendered it. 

Her eyes never left her reflection, distorted self smiling back at her as strange hands wandered. Every touch felt like being drunk again, warm and safe, everything light. It had been so long since she’d been close to anyone that the pressure was driving her mad. Maybe that’s exactly what Michael wanted. 

“You’d like that.”

Like what? she wondered. Staying in the halls? Falling apart under its careful touch? Being afraid?

She made eye contact with the other-her, watching as her dress split and fell away. She flinched at the sight of herself, nearly naked, not quite right. Skin flushed, and the outline of her body dissolving, she made up her mind. “New plan, drive me out of my mind like this?”

“Yes?” It ended on a hiss and a question. 

In the end, it was the only thing that made sense in this place, upside down halls closing tight around her, cold hands dancing over her stomach. Her head went fuzzy where it fell back against its shoulder. And then it was in front of her, and then she was pressed to the smooth surface of the mirror, her spiraling double fogging the glass with hot breath. 

It felt like nothing, like the world had fallen out beneath her feet and left her suspended, like every helix of her DNA rearranged itself into nonsensical fractals. 

Michael sighed, somewhere near her. She couldn’t say where. That mad laugh flicked against the inside of her skull, the last sound she heard as everything went white.

When she woke in her own bed, her clock suggesting she’d only been gone a few moments, she thought she could still hear its faintest echoes.


	7. Cunnilingus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: Cunnilingus  
> Sole Survivor Marion and My Cute Friend’s Other OC Sole Survivor Lunara
> 
> Lunara appears here again, and also in wildmutfruit’s stories!

Lunara flopped down face first on the large bed, all her energy leaving her with a dramatic sigh. 

Marion let out the breath she’d been holding since the other woman left. “Oh, my love,” she perched on the edge of the bed, running a hand through Lunara’s hair. “I was so worried.”

“Why?” she said into the pillow. New scorch marks decorated the hem of her general’s coat, dirt and blood beneath her fingernails. 

If she wrote a list of reasons she worried, it would stretch from the Castle to Sanctuary. For all her strength, her drive and optimism to carve out a safe place for the innocent, Lunara was also impulsive, self-sacrificing, running into danger just to feel something. Every time she left, she took Marion’s heart with her. 

There were a thousand things she could have said, but Lunara didn’t need her fussing over every close call. So she simply said, “Because I love you, of course.”

Lunara rolled over, tired smile on her delicate mouth. “Come here?”

She wrapped herself in her lover’s arms, breathing in the ozone scent of the wastes where it clung to her skin. Marion kissed her temple, leaving a perfect red lipstick print beside her pale birthmark. “I missed you.”

Lunara slid her hand down Marion’s spine, cupping her ass through the thin vault suit. “Missed you too,” she mumbled, pressing kisses haphazardly across her face as best she could with the awkward angle. She tucked her thigh between Marion’s.

As good as it felt pressed against her, she pulled back. “You’ve been working so hard. Let me take care of you.” 

She half expected her to turn down the offer, too stubborn, determined to make everyone else happy. Instead she sat up on her elbows. “Are you sure?”

Marion lit up. The opportunity to spoil her came so rarely. “I’m certain. Just relax, my darling. Don’t,” she kissed her cheek, “you worry,” her other cheek, “about a thing.” She punctuated every word with a soft kiss, trailing them down to her jaw. “Now let’s get you a little more comfortable.”

She helped Lunara out of her coat, unfastened her chest armor, and started on the buttons of her flannel. “Tell me about it. How is the new settlement faring?”

It wasn’t ideal bedroom talk, but it kept Lunara focused on something other than her urge to reciprocate. 

“It could be worse. One of the old buildings was still standing. They’re set up with the caravan now, so they won’t be fending for themselves anymore.”

Marion smoothed down her collarbones, hands sure and steady, massaging the tension out of the other woman’s body. 

She was beautiful like this, happy-tired, satisfied with her work and melting under the attention. 

“Mmm.” The little sound escaped accidentally when Marion kissed a line between her breasts, kneeling over her and slowly working down. She pulled her shirt open as she went. 

Marion heated up just from the sight of Lunara splayed on the sheets. She ached to taste her. And judging by the subtle shifting of her hips, Lunara wanted her just as much. 

“Patience is a virtue, you know,” she teased, unbuckling her belt and sliding her pants off her slim form. 

“That’s us, isn’t it? The most virtuous.” She gasped as the cold air caressed her. 

Marion warmed her quickly, trailing across her pale thighs, ghosting her fingertips through wet curls. She slid further down the bed, leaving kisses across her breasts, wicked tongue flicking her nipples, circling her navel. 

Lunara watched, lips parted, lapis lazuli eyes half lidded. She did a little shiver as Marion’s hot breath hit her sex. 

Starting at the junction of her thigh, she worked closer, parting her folds with careful fingers. “My god you’re beautiful,” she said. Her voice was husky, tongue darting out to wet her lips subconsciously. 

“Have you seen yourse—ah!” 

Marion interrupted by licking a stripe up the length of her slit, pressing hard with the flat of her tongue. Lunara was delicious. There was no other word for the salt and honey flavour, addictive, tantalizing. 

Marion moaned. Her core clenched, hot need pulsing between her thighs. The vault suit did no favours, no friction to buck against. 

Ignoring the call of her own pleasure, she rubbed circles into Lunara’s inner thigh, hands spreading her so she could bury her face between her legs. She sucked her clit, Lunara arching into the pressure. 

Switching tactics, she focused on breaching her with her tongue, a slow, patient drive forward as she in turn fucked down to meet her. 

The sounds that fell from her lips drove Marion wild. Restrained, yet drawing close, almost shy in her pleasure. 

She circled back up in a broad stroke, easing a finger in while she swiped open-mouthed kisses over her nub. She felt her tightening. 

Her own body was thrumming, chest heaving and red where her zipper had fallen. This woman had ruined her in the best way, making her question if, in all her storied career, Marion had ever felt real love. Now she was lost in it.

“It’s alright, darling, let go,” she whispered against her glistening skin. She crooked two fingers, coaxing her over that blissful edge, a silent promise to catch her. 

“Marion, I’m—“ she came with a cry, rolling her hips into the motion of Marion’s hand. She kissed her through it, feeling her pleasure as it ran down her chin. 

A moment later, as she returned to herself, Lunara said, “You didn’t? Let me help.”

Marion refused gently. “There’s time for that later. For now, rest. She moved up to spoon her, Lunara’s long hair flopped inelegantly over Marion’s face. She snuggled closer. 

With her arm tucked around Lunara’s chest, she felt her heartbeat as it slowed to a gentle rhythm. “You’ve done so well.” 

For a rare moment, Lunara was completely lax, letting Marion hold her and whisper praise against her hair. The Commonwealth, despite their efforts, could be a cold, cruel place. But tonight, they knew peace in each other’s arms.


	8. Partner Swap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 8: Partner Swap  
> Jon and Michael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My good friend is writing the other half of this, from the Gerry/Martin perspective so be on the lookout for that! 
> 
> Also I took some liberties with timelines and bringing people back to life

At the sound of a familiar door, Jon rounded the corner, Martin in tow. The artifact they sought—some sort of novelty magnet reportedly spying on people—was filed away somewhere down here in the slim section dedicated to The Eye. It wouldn’t do if The Spiral somehow got its misshapen hands on it. 

He entered the place where the tunnels widened into a sizable room. Then he blanched. 

“Gerard Keay.”

Since the burning of his page and subsequent release into the corporeal realm, Gerry Keay kept appearing. Now he lingered somewhere between mortal and a servant of The End, refusing to commit to any entity as he considered them “all a bit shit.”

Jon made a move to help Gerry, but suddenly Martin was at his elbow. Martin blushed. “He’s ok, Jon.”

“But-“

He nudged him carefully, giving him a ‘for a patron of a knowledge god, you’re awfully dense’ look. 

The aforementioned man sat on the floor, leaned back, with a look of frustration on his pale face. Michael, in all its twisting madness, loomed over him, kneeling between his parted legs. A curtain of electric yellow curls hung in Gerry’s face. After a slow moment, Jon came to a realization. 

“Great timing, guys.” Gerry rolled his eyes. The tattooed ones along his knuckles and elbows did the same. 

Martin made a quiet apology.

And that was when Michael turned its attention on Jon. 

Jon was not a tall man. He was positively tiny in Michael’s distorted shadow. He fought to keep his pulse even. 

“Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, Archivist?” One long finger lingered perilously close to the tip of Jon’s nose. “How typical.” The pout came through its tone, though its face flicked in and out of the visible plain. 

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—“

“It Knows You likes to watch its own domain. How...frustrating it can’t See us down here. But you...”

Jon took a step back and stumbled, landing hard on the ground. He scrambled backward. 

Michael surged forward, a perfect imitation of its earlier pose with Gerry. “The Eye is blind to the corridors and tunnels, but still the pesky Archivist meddles in business that isn’t his own.”

“I wasn’t trying to—I’m not working for The Eye. I want to stop this.”

Michael laughed a manic discord, long hands bracketing Jon’s sides. “And what are you willing to sacrifice?” Its eyes, swirling and blue, flicked to Martin. “There is always a sacrifice.” Michael continued, far away, words coming in staccato as if recited from a fading memory. “And you will make it bravely. Go on. You must keep talking. It won’t do to miss a detail.”

Jon heard the words in another voice, one he recognised from old tapes. “Gertrude said that. She Compelled you to describe your own death.” Of course it was true. There was no tact in the pursuit of answers. Her curiosity couldn’t resist. He wondered if he’d be any different. He hoped so. “I think I understand.”

A slash cut across his chest, three thin lines that quickly welled with blood. Fingertips. 

Michael consumed his entire field of vision. “You understand.” Razor-wire nails ran down a chalkboard in Jon’s head. “The Archivist thinks he can understand?” It jammed a finger into his forehead. He winced.

“I only meant that—“

The world spun away. In its place, impossible patterns danced behind his eyes. He tried to think, to block out the dizzying shapes, but every thought redirected. It met dead ends in his mind, bumping into invisible barriers and being forced back. Perpetual unknowing, every effort to make sense thwarted. 

Michael, escaping the bounds of an outline, dipped into Jon’s, blurring with him. Wherever it touched, foamy white noise burned beneath his skin. 

The chill of the floor and the ache in his arms were the only sign he still existed. Michael climbed into his lap, throwing an arm around his shoulder. Jon shouldn’t have found it so thrilling and yet...

And yet, he wanted to Know. He prodded at the dead ends, searching flat walls for hidden doors. Jon followed the fractal lines until they almost—almost—made sense. 

Michael made what might be called a pleased noise. “You cannot make sense of me, though you’re welcome to try.” Its voice was a reedy sing-song. “It feels...”

Jon paused in his ceaseless prodding. Michael, draped over him like a contented cat, should have weighed something, but it did not. The space it occupied was empty. “What does it feel like?” 

The question held too much static. It ripped from his mouth with purpose. Michael recoiled as if struck. “Oh, that was the end. It feels.” It laughed.

Jon realised just how close they pressed together; Michael’s shifting form covered all of him, enveloped him in tangling colours. Oddly intimate. The part of him still attached to reason wondered if Martin would be jealous. 

It climbed once more into his mind, attempting to give him a glimpse of something that might break him. Jon gasped, leaning back to take it all in. His eyes were wide. 

“Now, hold on.” Martin’s voice brought him neatly back to reality. “Is he...is that how Michael flirts?” He sounded half confused, half outraged. 

Jon Knew that tone, knew when he was being watched. Martin liked seeing him pinned down and flustered. He knew Jon could handle himself in...well, whatever this was. 

“We could go,” he said reluctantly. It pulled at him, the burning temptation to lose himself in the mental corridors. He had been so close, his patron dragging him through the maze toward clarity. He wanted to understand, wanted to know what it felt like to reach out and touch something like Michael.

“Actually, Jon, I’m going to fuck Gerry.”

He choked. “Y-you are?” He couldn’t twist around to get a good look at him—he wanted to know what determined and impulsive looked like on Martin.

“Yes. Yes I think so.”

“You are?!” Gerry, for all his surprise, sounded quite pleased about this change of plans. 

Michael just laughed, the sound echoing through the tunnels. “You would like to See that.”

Jon swallowed.

“Mm. Pity. I think I will distract you instead.”

“Wait just a moment.” Caught up in the search for answers, he forgot himself. Maybe that was the whole point of Michael. “There are limits.”

“Ooh,” Michael cooed. “I can take you apart without ever touching you.” 

“Show me.”

Michael arched, perceived by the power it so despised. It sighed. 

Tendrils of neon light crept behind Jon’s eyes, pulling at his vision. They separated him from his Sight, stripping him bare beneath the tide of nonsensical electrical impulses. His brain misfires. Bursts of light, then dark, faded into a glowing afterimage. The Spiral imprinted itself into his mind, pulling him into the halls. He was inside it as it was inside him, branching paths shifting and changing. 

He gasped with the wonder of it. Desperately, his logic tried to find foothold, scrambling against the slippery walls of endless paths. He was falling and flying. Dreaming and awake. Swirling in an endless loop that left him sobbing for relief. 

Michael situated itself nearly into his mind.   
“You could join me.” It was breathy with dizzy pleasure. The twin tortures of confusion and perception. 

“Why would I do that?” His voice sounded raw to his own ears. 

“What do you see, Archivist?” Michael’s disembodied voice echoed through the labyrinth. Jon met his reflection in the mirror and Understood. His skin was marked with hundreds of eyes. They swiveled in time with his normal ones, blinking in rapid succession. Here was truth, here was the answer. 

“Reflect a backward image in a mirror,” Jon said aloud, “and it faces the right way.” 

The finality of it all crashed down around him in an explosion of imperceptible colours. They started on his tongue and built outward. Vaguely he wondered if Michael had kissed him while he fell away. Shocks dragged down his spine, acidic. The blood in his ears reached a roaring volume, tuning out the world as he spun and spun and spun until nothing remained. 

He sat on the cold stone floor of the tunnels as the world filtered back in, piece by fractured piece. Michael had abandoned him, much more interested in whatever Gerry and Martin were up to. Jon sighed, rubbing his temples. A maddening itch at the back of his mind had yet to be satisfied. He Knew this wasn’t the last time they would meet like this.


	9. Begging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 9: Begging   
> Kent Connolly and Sole Survivor Rook

“It’s ok, if you don’t still want to. I mean, I get it. I’m not, well, I’m not like...you, and...” Kent stumbled out an explanation, wringing his hands. He stood in from of Rook, who perched on the bed in his Memory Den room. 

The other man took Kent’s hands gently, his thumb tracing the ridges of his palm.   
“Kent?” he interrupted.

“Yeah?”

“Do you still want to?” He kept his voice even, no expectations, just an honest question. His eyes were soft and warm.

“I really, really do,” he looked away, “but if you’re, you know, not attracted to me I-I understand. And I don’t blame you.”

Rook guided him to sit on his lap, holding him close. Kent tried to hide himself, his unbuttoned shirt open to show his ruined skin. 

“I’m lucky to be with you. I still don’t know why you’d even want to be seen with me,” Rook said. His large hands enveloped the ghoul. “So, if you’ll have me...”

Kent surged in to kiss him, every bit as impulsive and seeking as their first. He tugged the suspenders from Rook’s broad shoulders, his hands fumbling with his buttons. 

Rook got down to only his underwear. Both of them pressed closer, rolling into the friction of each other’s body. Kent moaned into his mouth, a shocked high sound. He was already hard, had been since Rook suggested tonight was the night. 

“I don’t know how this works.” 

“We can figure it out, ok?” Gently, Rook encouraged him to move back. He spun them around, smile unbearably sweet. 

His knees hit the floor. 

Perfect height to nuzzle his mouth against his clothed erection. Kent went weak. He scrambled for something to keep him in the real world.

Perfect height for Kent to thread his hands back into Rook’s hair, soft and straight between his fingers. 

Rook threw his head back, arching closer. His cock strained against his briefs, bobbing as he jutted his hips into empty air. It was as if a switch flipped. Suddenly he was at Kent’s mercy. “Please just...do something,” he gasped. Teeth gritted, mouth a harsh line of tension, he breathed hard and heavy. 

Kent glanced down. He worried his lip in his teeth. “Rook, I...” his rough voice cracked. “I don’t think I can take that.”

He shouldn’t have been so turned on by the mere idea, but somewhere the lust and the inadequacy just got tangled. Kent considered himself proportional. Rook was proportional too, only he was also comfortably over six foot tall. 

His cheeks reddened beneath the black slash of his tattoo. “No, I don’t want to hurt you. Your hand?” How someone like Rook managed to look so sheepish, Kent would never know. It flustered him to no end. 

“Ok, come on. Sit back on the bed.” Taking charge felt wrong after spending a lifetime as a sidekick. But just the same, Rook did as he said. Despite the shame, he wished the other man would just undress him already. The heat was stifling. 

His neglected cock twitched as Rook removed his own pants, shimmying then down his long, long legs. 

“You’re something else.”

“Is that a good thing?”

They kissed as Kent situated himself on Rook’s lap again. Rook kissed like he fought: with abandon, targeted and evasive, not afraid of losing himself.

He couldn’t resist tangling his hands in his hair and pulling.

“Ohhhhh fuck.” Rook whined, hands digging into Kent’s soft hips. 

If he reached, their chests flush, he could wrap one hand around Rook’s shaft while still gripping his hair with the other. 

“Kent, come on. Please. I need it.”

He did this. Little, dorky Kent Connolly had reduced this beautiful man to a mess. Oh, he wasn’t going to last. This would be over before he could even get his pants down. 

He started slowly with careful strokes. Rook was so smooth, even with small scars littering his body, he was so touchable. Kent wanted to take this slow, but there was no chance this time. He let go of his hair to grind his palm between his legs, stuttering out a choked out breath. 

“Don’t stop!” That hand in his hair really did wonders—five seconds without it had Rook starved. “Please, I need more.”

All his fantasies came to life in this moment. Rook’s eyes closed, disappearing in the black ink. He drew in tortured shaking gasps. 

“Don’t leave me like this...”

Needy. Hmm. Kent filed that info away. He gave in. He swiped his thumb over the leaking head. Rook cried out. He was saying nonsense at this point, rocking forward to fuck the rough circle of Kent’s hand. “Yes!”

He tried so hard to hold back, to bring Rook to the sweet edge first. The fight coil of need build and built until it was all he could feel. His mind blanked from the power of it.

In the end, it was that gravely voice calling his name that did him in. He squeaked a warning. 

Wobbling, he caught himself with one hand in Rook’s hair, pulling harder than he meant to. 

“Please!” He looked like he might die on the spot if Kent didn’t do something.

His heart beat frantically. Kent ducked his head against Rook’s chest, twisting his wrist on the upstroke. He wanted—needed—to be good enough for him. 

He scratched his blunt nails over his scalp. Rook fell apart, whole body snapping tight and then going lax. 

When he fell back against the bed in messy satisfaction, Kent went with him. He stared at the ceiling and laughed. 

“Oh my god! That was—wow.”

“Good wow?” 

Kent snuggled in, feeling small beside him. With Rook, though, it was alright. He made their little corner of the wasteland feel safe. “The best wow.”

“The best wow,” Rook repeated. Sleep clung to his words. Somehow, they’d gotten this far, battling every social awkwardness to get to this exact moment. 

He yawned, stretching and wrapping his arms around one of Rook’s. It was more than worth it, Kent decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with it. I’m trying to get this done every day, but sometimes inspiration and motivation are very far away. 
> 
> Oh! And you might recognize Rook from “Holding Out For A Hero” which is also posted on here


	10. Wax Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 10: Wax Play  
> Hannibal and Bedelia

“I’m going to need you to turn over now, Hannibal.” Bedelia stood off to the side, doing her most convincing impression of remaining unbothered. That was no easy task when Hannibal turned onto his stomach, bare back flexing with the motion. His deltoids stretched and rolled, broad shoulders on display. 

They would look significantly better with her nail prints scratched into them. Moving to the other side of the bed, she tutted. “Eager, are we?” 

Teasing Hannibal was playing with fire, hoping to get burned. Their relationship flew in the face of professionalism, but all things considered, that was the least of their worries. She mostly tried not to think about it.

“Mm,” he agreed.

He had suggested this rendezvous, of course. Hannibal had always been so good at pursuing what he wanted. Somewhere between a glutton and a hunter, he rung every bit of satisfaction out life, savoring it like the finest wine. The chase was on. But then again, Bedelia wasn’t prey. 

Her gold evening dress slid down her arms, baring more cleavage. Not that he noticed, with his head pressed into the sheets. “Is there something you’d like?”

“You.” His tone barely betrayed his impatience, but she’d been around him long enough to read his tells. A tendon in his neck stood out from how hard he ground his teeth. 

She wouldn’t let him win so easily. On a whim, she gripped his hair and pulled him up to look at her. “Where are your manners?” 

He let out a surprised grunt. His dark eyes were almost black in the low light. 

Switching to a softer voice, she said, “Ask nicely. You wouldn’t try to cause trouble on purpose.” In the quiet, her smoky voice was nearly inaudible. 

“I’d like for you to touch me,” he said, “if that is at all convenient.” 

She wanted to kiss the self-satisfied smirk from his lips. But she didn’t. She knew the rules. “No,” she mused, “I don’t think I will.” Beside the bed burned a candle, flickering softly and releasing a spicy, fruity scent. She picked it up. 

An inch of wax liquified on the top. She looked to the unmarked plane of his back. 

Smoothing her hand down the length of his spine, she readied him for the sensation. The thought of catching him off guard, truly breaking that veneer, set heat simmering in her stomach. 

Carefully, she held the delicate filigreed glass candle above him. A stray drop teetered along the rim, then fell. It landed neatly between his shoulder blades.

Hannibal hissed a breath. “You’re full of wicked ideas.” He sounded proud. 

“Perhaps you’re a bad influence.” Drip. Drip. A thin line of droplets down his spine. With every drop, he flinched, then sighed, the ritual of tension and release. 

It was a ritual they had followed before. He told her once, sharing a 1997 bottle of Vosne-Romanee, that everything was a matter of simple accumulation and release of energy. The drive for nourishment, for survival, for orgasm. That night, they’d had a bit of all three.

This time, though, she intended to draw it out. A spatter of wax pooled in the dip of his lower back. The low light caught it as it dried. 

As tempting as it was to trace the line with her lips, the pepper and pomegranate wax wouldn’t taste nearly as good as his bare skin. 

She intended to decorate every inch of her canvas, swirling the hot wax over his lower back, over the swell of his ass, down the back of his thighs. 

That earned the best reaction. He jerked his hips, digging his hands into the sheets.

“Too much?”

“Not yet.”

He knew his limits more than anyone she’d ever known, confident, fine-tuned. And so she kept going, laying out an intricate design over his shoulders. 

Finally, she stood back to admire her work. Beautiful.

“You should see how you look, like this. It’s so rare.”

“How do I look?” Each word fought through a layer of restraint, his voice pulled tight. 

Bedelia smeared her hand through her art. “Messy.”

The drying wax tugged his skin as he turned over. A shame about the bedsheets; they’d be a mess by morning. 

Bedelia didn’t bother to undress, straddling his hips and moving her damp panties to the side. Tired of waiting, she sank down onto him in one smooth motion, chasing her pleasure. They moved together, the steady thrum of their bodies building and building. Tension, and release, she thought, a last coherent thought before she reached the peak. 

She threw her head back as she convulsed, silently riding it out. Hannibal took her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm as he bucked up into her and spilled. 

With his hair mussed, he looked so unthreatening, resting back on the pillow, smears of wax on the sheets beneath. She almost forgot what he was. 

“Will you stay?” 

If she stayed, they would only become further entwined. Allies. Accomplices. Any moment she spent with Hannibal marked her for the worse. “Yes,” she said.


	11. Spanking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 11: Spanking  
> Gage and Overboss Echo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! This one features some fairly rough talk/sex. It’s all consensual, but just a heads up

“So you let the son of a bitch go.” Gage propped one foot on the rail of Fizztop, overlooking Nuka-World. He let the empty beer bottle go. 

Echo counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. Crash. Someone would clean it up. She shrugged. “Yeah. And?” 

He was mad; she could tell. She didn’t give a damn. 

“And nothing. You’re just gonna let this hopped up zombie run around your city? Thought you were better than that.”

That did it. He needed to remember who he was speaking to. She marched over and yanked him by the armor. “Better than what? Huh? Last time I checked, I make the rules around here.”

“Last time I checked, you’re supposed to be doing what’s best for us. Not them.”

She knew the quickest way to derail him. It wasn’t like his anger meant anything to her—she called the shots—there just wasn’t a point in arguing about something done and over with. “So you’re pissed. What’re you going to do about it?” 

Gage froze. 

Calculations crossed his face as he weighed his options. Mischief tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Good, he made the right choice. “Think I ought to teach you a lesson.”

She headed for the bed, but he stopped her. “You know how this goes.”

She didn’t. That thrilled her. 

In one smooth motion, he sat back in a chair and pulled her with him. She fell across his lap sideways, on her stomach. 

Heat pooled in her gut. Fuck, he was really going to do this? “Going to smack some sense into me?” She wriggled, trying to press up against his cock through his pants. “Come on, tough guy. Give me all you’ve got.”

He tugged her leather pants down mid-thigh. She shivered. “Careful what you wish for.” 

He lined up his hand, testing out the position. His calloused palms kneeled her ass in rough handfuls. Thank fuck. He’d been treating her so gently when all she really needed was a good strong punishment. 

“Do it, you stupid—ah!” He brought his palm down in a perfect strike. Her skin stung. “Not fair. Caught me off g—“ Again, this time harder. She yelped. 

It was so fun to get him riled up, to push his buttons until he pinned her to the wall, or took her in front of her crew. Each blow came harder than the last, smacking each cheek until she was sure they burned bright red. 

Somewhere down the line, her bandana fell off. She drooled. 

“Now,” he said, deceptively calm, “What’ve you learned about making dumbass decisions?” Gage couldn’t play coy, not when his cock was pressing hard and heavy into her stomach. She rocked against him for good measure, and he groaned.

“Hmm. I don’t think it’s sinking in.” It hurt—of course it fucking hurt—but her core pulsed with every strike. Picturing his face, brown furrowed with concentration, got her close. Her hips rocked against his thigh for friction. Strong hands gripped them, holding them in place.

“Not til you apologize. Ain’t no way I’m letting you get off that easy.” He sounded smug.

“Don’t count on it.” Slap. The air reverberated with the sound of his open palm. She jumped. “Again.”

Forgetting the purpose of their little game, he indulged her, bringing his hand down again and again. Her skin screamed, welts raising on each ass cheek, upper thighs tingling with the after burn. “When.” Crack. “Will.” Crack. “You.” Crack. “Learn?”

She cried out, rutting. Pushing up into his hand while trying to get away, she only managed to fluster herself more. “Porter, come on. It was a one time thing.”

He chuckled. “Pretty easy to break, aren’t you?”

“I...no. That wasn’t an apology.”

Smack.

She surged forward from the force. Tears sprang to her eyes. She dangled on the edge, overheating. 

“Alright! Fuck! I messed up, ok?”

His hand descended, but stopped short, instead grabbing at her pink skin. “Yeah?”

“And I.” She swallowed, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

“Good girl.” 

It shouldn’t have sent such a jolt through her, and yet she couldn’t resist tugging her pants the rest of the way down at his words. 

He’d held off well, but how he was done waiting. Taking just long enough to undress, he pulled her back into his lap.

She squealed as she seated herself on him, riding like her life depended on it. No matter how much they prepped, it was always a stretch. With each downward thrust, her sensitive ass brushed his legs, sending flare ups of pain through her system. How was she going to manage tomorrow? 

He grunted, burying his face against her neck. He held her tight as he pounded into her, guiding each thrust. “Close?” he managed.

“Gonna—fuck! Gage!” She clenched around him, digging her nails into his shoulder as her climax struck her down. 

He doubled down, pistoning his hips to meet hers, then came hard with a strangled cry. 

Echo recovered first, gingerly stepping off. She rubbed her red cheeks. “Well, I learned a lesson.”

“And what’s that?”

“I have to misbehave more often.”


	12. Orgy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 12: Orgy  
> Danse and Hancock and Lunara and Marion (both of whom are original characters of my friend wildmutfruit and I)

This was the Hancock’s very best idea. Even if he popped every last Mentat in the Commonwealth at once, he’d never have an idea this good again in his life. Lunara—Minuteman general and savior of the wasteland—pressed her face into the inviting softness of her lover’s ample breasts. Her hips rocked steadily back against Hancock, who knelt behind her, guiding her motions with hands on her waist. Beneath Lunara, Marion writhed, arching up into the heat of the mouth teasing her nipples into peaks. Her plump thigh glistened where Lunara had ridden it to completion moments ago. 

She was so hot and slick when Hancock pressed inside, keening her pleasure against Marion’s feverish skin. He couldn’t help groan as he sank into her, bracing himself with a handful of her ass. All the while, Danse’s eyes bored into his back.  
“Why don’t you join the party?” 

“I think I will just watch.” Though clipped and low as usual, Danse’s voice came out strained. Even without seeing him, Hancock knew he was stroking himself. 

“Danse, darling,” Marion said in a breathy tone, “Please? I promise it will be worth your while.”

He didn’t need much encouragement to join them on the bed. “Where should I...?”

Marion guided him to straddle her face. She took him into her mouth at the same time Hancock claimed his lips, meeting in the middle over Lunara. They joined hands on her back, both carefully tugging her back and forth. Lunara tongued anywhere she could reach, tracing lines over Danse’s hips. 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous!” Hancock didn’t know who he was talking to in the moment. Regardless it was true. Lunara wore an expression of fierce determination, brows set in a line as she chased the building tide of desire. Marion flushed pink as she took Danse into her throat, humming a tuneless song. She rolled her hips against Lunara’s knee. And Danse, face screwed tight with pleasure, fumbled for Hancock’s jaw, holding him while his fingers pressed against his fluttering pulse.

If he could keep this moment forever, lock it in place...

Hancock grinned against Danse’s strong jaw. Second best idea of the night. “Hold up,” he said, fumbling blindly on the mattress. His hand closed around the inhaler of Jet.

He waited until Danse groaned out a warning that he was close, before really doubling down. He rutted into Lunara at a merciless pace, covering her back with his chest. She pressed down into Marion, bombarded with friction from both directions. 

Then, when the building pleasure crested, he took a hit. Jet fumes filled his lungs, swirling like a radioactive fog around his head. In seconds, they snuck into his mind, blurring his vision. The world slowed to a crawl. Danse’s calloused palm gripped his shoulder: he felt every ridge of his fingertips against his own rough skin. The tightness of Lunara’s heat enveloped him, the press of her ass against his hips overwhelming. And Marion, soft, warm Marion...

Distantly, he heard himself growl out a moan. It echoed, somewhere above him, barely breaking through the haze. He pulled out as he came, painting a messy stripe over the small of Lunara’s back. She gasped sharply. 

The moment stretched, gooey and warm, chemical-scented and perfect. Wave after wave of pleasure rolled through him, wracking his brain, shaking his body. He floated somewhere in the cloud, outside himself and so present at the same time. 

But Jet highs rarely lasted long. Soon he was clicking back into the scene. He fell back on his heels on the bed, a lazy grin plastered across his face as he watched the other three finish what he started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be making these shorter in the coming days just so I can finish them and have something for every prompt. Please let me know if you want me to expand on any of them! And as always, thanks so much for reading! <3


	13. 13

Coming soon...skip to ch 15 please


	14. 14

Coming soon...skip to next chapter please


	15. Dirty Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 15: Dirty Talk   
> Nick Valentine/Magnolia

“You’ve got a great voice, Nicky.” Magnolia stepped out of her heels and took out her earrings in front of the Rexford room’s cracked mirror. Her hair swayed, long and glossy against the small of her back, brushing right there where Nick longed to kiss her. 

“Yeah? And a face for radio. Next thing you know, I’ll put Travis out of a job.” He chuckled to himself as he unlooped his tie. He never fully undressed in their sweet little rendezvous, just got a few layers out of the way. 

“I mean it,” she said, her own voice as low and smoky as her signature songs. “Classic. A little rough. Exciting.” She slid her hand down his chest. 

He caught her wrist in his good hand, bringing her hand up and kissing it. “Exciting, huh?” 

She pressed her knee between his, just to watch his optics flicker. 

“So,” he leaned in close, lips hovering just above the skin of her pale neck. Where she found perfume in the wastes, he couldn’t say, but the heat and femininity that hummed through her drove him wild. “If I said I want you, want to see how many times I can make you scream my name tonight, if I told you all the ways I’m gonna make you cum...”

She tilted to give him access, a soft sound falling from red lips. 

“...that would be exciting?”

“You’re a mean man, Detective. Don’t you know it’s not nice to tease?” She sighed. 

Nick pressed slow kisses up the length of her neck, a neat line ending at her ear. She shivered as he laved the spot with the tip of his tongue. 

Pulling back for an instant, she grabbed his shirt collar and kissed him hard, cigarette smoke and silicone on his lips. They pressed against each other, Nick nipping at her bottom lip, metal hand catching in the fabric of her dress. He moaned into her mouth, growing hard against the heat of her thigh. 

He never got used to that, how quickly she brought him out of his own head. In the beginning, she was the one to teach him everything his synthetic body could do. And now he had a few tricks to show her. 

“It’s not teasing if I keep all my promises. Now let’s get you out of that dress.”

He took the lead, sliding it off both her shoulders, then turning to take down the zipper in the back. As he tugged it down, he knelt, following its wake with hot kisses. The low lamplight and the glow of his eyes illuminated the wet trail of lips on skin. 

She sighed again, tension leaving every inch of her body, the warmth and the attention melting her into a honey-sweet state. Magnolia stepped from her dress and helped him to his feet, chests bumping together as he stood. She wore only her panties; he could feel the stiff peaks of her nipples pressing to his chest.   
“Let’s hear those promises, then.”

He huffed a laugh. “First, I want to lay you down, real gentle, take my time with you. You know what I was thinking about, the whole time you’re up there singing?” 

She pulled him toward the bed, wishing he still had his tie to drag him down atop her. “Tell me.”

“I was thinking how bad I want to get a taste. Would you like that? Let me take you to the back room, get my tongue between your thighs?” 

“It’s a private show, sugar,” she managed, eyes fluttering. “You and me, right now. God, I want your hands on me.”

He gave in, following her down to the mattress, letting her roll them so she straddled his hips. She rolled against his clothed erection, leaving a slick mark against him even through her panties. 

“Get those off doll.” As she sat back, he unfastened his pants. So long as he didn’t look at himself, the scene didn’t break. Instead he focused on her, her beautiful body silhouetted in the light, small pert breasts and soft hips, hair cascading into her face as she leaned over him. 

She settled into his lap, guiding him inside her, so wet already her thighs shone with it. 

He reached for her, sharp fingers almost grabbing a handful of soft skin. He stopped, readjusted. “Hell, Magnolia...” His throat clicked but no more words came out. 

“Talk to me.” 

He was glad he didn’t need to breath. He could barely function, hips snapping up to meet her downward roll, her tight heat. Her lazy smile had him overheating. Still, he tried. “Doll, do you know what you—ah—what you do to me?” 

She gasped, and doubled her efforts, toying her nipple between two fingers. 

He pushed her hand away. “Let me. Let me take care of you. I’m gonna make you feel so good. Going to drive you out of your mind.”

He was babbling now, chasing the spark of pleasure running like fire down his spine. Signals misfired in his brain, lightning in his core. A processor in his chest stuttered. 

“Nick...”

“Are you...shit! Are you close?”

She didn’t reply, just squeezed her eyes shut. Her body tensed. 

“Nick!” A tortured expression pulled her mouth tight. 

“Come on, doll. You’re almost there now.”

Her core tightened to a painful grip, electric, and he felt himself there with her. 

Nick was a live wire, buzzing with need. “I’ve got you.” 

She fell apart. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as she convulsed, legs shaking as they held tight to his hips. 

He fell with her, warning code blurring his vision. His world narrowed to the heat where they connected, his body going tenser and tenser until he snapped. 

The next thing he knew, she lay beside him, fingers idly playing with one of the wires in his neck. 

“Here, sugar.” She passed him her cigarette and he took a grateful drag. 

Her smile was satisfied, but mischief still lit her dark eyes. “Take your time. We’ve got all night.”

He slowly floated back into himself. “That’s right. And I intend to keep my promises.”


	16. 16

Coming soon...skip to ch 20 please


	17. 17

Coming soon...skip to ch 20 please


	18. 18

Coming soon...skip to ch 20 please


	19. 19

Coming soon...skip to ch 20 please


	20. Stockings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 20: Stockings  
> Elias/Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still exist! I think(?)

They looked, in Elias’s personal opinion, fantastic on him. Long ago surrendering any dignity for the warm bliss of desire, he posed in front of the full length mirror, admiring himself. The black netted stockings clung to his shapely legs, ending in a lace ruffle just above his knees. A stylized lace eye peered out from the band, matching one on each ankle. The black contrasted his pale skin, flushed pink with need now. 

The Eye had a way of encouraging his need to be seen. It fed on the subtle thrill, the delicate shame of Knowing he would wear the frilly things beneath his suit. He hoped it wasn’t for nothing. 

Luckily, Elias didn’t have to wait long. As he sat behind his desk, distracting himself with paperwork, a cold foggy static pressed at the back of his brain. It bubbled thick and salty in the air. “Ah. Peter.”

“Elias.” It was cordial enough, yet still stung with forgotten hurt. The man responsible, Peter Lukas, perched at the edge of the desk, not making himself comfortable, a sort of unspoken agreement that he wouldn’t stay. 

“Did you need something?” The bitterness in his voice only made it better. They both knew it. 

“You’ve missed me, I see.” Peter gestured at nothing in particular, oddly cheery. “Tell me, my dearest, is it hard for you when I’m away?”

He stretched his palms out across the surface of his mahogany desk. “Not particularly. I don’t consider myself a lonely person.” Crossing one leg over the other, he let just a little black lace peek through. 

Peter followed the motion with his eyes, bushy eyebrows shooting up. “You dressed for the occasion.”

He toed off his brogues, running the tip of one lace-clad foot over the opposite calf. “And what occasion is that?” Elias stood no chance in this game between them. One couldn’t win an ‘unaffected’ contest with an avatar of the Lonely. That didn’t mean he would surrender so soon. 

“Now,” said Peter, rounding the corner of the desk. Surprisingly graceful for a man of his stature, he slipped into the space between Elias’s knees, leaning back on the desk’s surface. His palms crinkled a pile of documents. “Is that any way to treat your long lost husband, returned from sea? Give us a kiss.”

Elias sneered. “You’re so sure I’ve dressed for you.” Propping his feet on the desk, ankles neatly crossed, he watched the faintest pink flush wash across Peter’s face. His eyes didn’t leave the suggestion of lace peeking through.

Peter rested one large hand on the hem of Elias’s trousers, thumb brushing his ankle. “No, I know you better than that. You’ve gone to all this trouble just in case someone notices you. Anyone will do, won’t they? Your Archivist, the receptionist, me. Doesn’t matter, so long as all eyes are on you.” He toyed with the trouser hem again, pushing it up just a bit to reveal a little more leg. 

Elias huffed. It was always Peter’s way, to tease and prod and never do anything until Elias took the initiative. He wanted Elias to ache from his inaction. “Have you locked the door?”

“I figured you’d prefer if anyone could come walking in.”

His breath caught. “That’s...yes.” He wasted no time, standing in the small space between Peter and the chair, chest flush with Peter’s. 

He tilted Elias’s head up to look at him, only inviting the briefest moment of eye contact. Elias drank it in, then surged forward and caught him in a biting kiss. He dug his hands into the fabric of Peter’s coat, pulling him in and melting some of his icy demeanor. 

He pulled back. “Well?”

“Well,” Elias said, embarrassingly breathless. 

“Let’s see.”

He truly knew just how to get to Elias, didn’t he? His stomach dropped, a heady thrill at the idea of being so closely watched. His hands went to his tie, almost fumbling with the knot. To his credit, he maintained composure, staring Peter down as he pulled it away. 

They were close enough that Peter could surely feel the heat radiating from him. His hands brushed against the front of his coat with every motion. Peter remained impassive. 

Even if he hadn’t been looking, Elias could feel his eyes on every move. One by one, he unfastened the buttons of his dress shirt, pulling it apart slowly but not removing it. His palm trailed down his stomach to rest at the button of his trousers. 

“No one likes a show off,” Peter said, fighting to keep a wobble out of his voice. 

He Knew that wasn’t true. Peter’s pale face showed every flush, every darting glance over newly revealed skin. He worried his lip while Elias picked up the pace, sliding down his trousers and pulling his shirt from his shoulders. 

The eyes—his eyes—took in the view from the portrait on the wall. Delightfully naked now, save for the stockings and their black garter belt, he let himself be admired. 

Peter didn’t disappoint. It was easier, when he didn’t have to look him in the face, just trail his gaze along Elias’s slender calves, up to linger at thighs just soft enough to gain little dents from the garters. 

His hands twitched from the effort of keeping them at his sides. 

“Don’t, then.”

It took Peter just a moment to realize he hadn’t spoken aloud. “Stay out of my head, Elias.”

His smooth grin turned predatory. “Make me.” 

The game was up. In one move, Peter spun them both around, pressing Elias stomach down on his desk. 

The breath rushed from his lungs all at once as he scrambled for traction, fingers grasping at the pile of statements. Peter’s strong hips pinned him to the surface, needy length pressed to the back of his thighs. He pushed back into the contact, suddenly desperate. A large palm in the center of his back forced him to hold torturously still. Elias whined. 

Peter laughed at that, a little breathless. His other hand slid down his spine, cool against Elias’s overheating skin. “All nice and pretty for me, is that it?” Cupping his ass, he squeezed. Elias jerked against the desk. 

Somehow he managed to sound smug when he said, “Pretty and prepared, so if you don’t mind...”

Peter groaned his appreciation, toying with the lace as he moved lower, taking his time. Calloused fingers stroked and teased along his legs, just a whisper of a touch. 

“Patience, or I might just leave you like this.”

Elias went cold. His eyes were wide with panic, until he Saw Peter didn’t mean it. He wouldn’t, not when he wanted him just as much. 

He took advantage of the distraction to rut against him, aching cock trapped against the surface of his own desk. If only he could see himself from that angle, red and leaking, barely covered in the thin lace. His breath hitched. Like an itch at the back of his mind, he needed to See himself. “Move.”

Peter pulled back, rolling his eyes. He was still far too dressed anyway, and took the opportunity to undo his buttons. 

Elias settled himself at the edge of the desk, facing him, helping him tug his coat off. Much better, this new angle. From above he saw the scene, the harsh set of Peter’s shoulders as he fought to control himself, the almost demure glimpses of the lingerie as they shifted positions. He watched his own expression turn rapturous as Peter palmed him through the fabric. The subtle part of his lips, the glint in his eyes as he met those in the portrait. 

“Dear me,” said Peter, apropos of nothing.

Elias tore his gaze away from himself reluctantly. “Hm?”

All sensation doubled, now that he was fully in his own body. Questing hands tugged at the complicated clasps of the garter belt. Always so cold, Peter sent chills over his skin and heat pooling in his stomach. He pulled him in closer, legs around Peter’s waist. 

“Should I be offended that I’m second place to your own reflection?” His voice came out in a huff as Elias drew him in. 

Peter freed himself from his trousers, not bothering to fully undress. He stroked himself to full hardness, momentarily abandoning Elias. 

The briefest lack of contact made him reel. Was it his own desperation, or The Lonely, that left him aching? “Peter...” He was lost, unmoored, until the other man’s hands settled on his hips and anchored him. 

“These stay on, I think.” He sounded conversational, even as he moved the black panties out of the way. 

Elias just nodded, all thoughts fleeing as Peter breached him with one thick finger. Despite earlier prep, he hissed at the stretch. Leaning back further on the desk, he closed his eyes, seeing only with those scattered in portraits around the office. He was—in a word—a mess. Neatly gelled hair fell slipped into his sweaty face, his spine arched perfectly, pink-flushed legs parted around Peter as he worked in a second finger, before withdrawing completely.

His eyes flew open. 

Peter’s smile was instantaneous. “That’s a good look on you. Maybe I’ll just leave you right here.” 

He choked a panicked little sound. “You wouldn’t.” Heart fluttering, he stared Peter down, searching for any hint of teasing. 

There was none, just a satisfied gleam that suggested his Patron loved every moment of his delicious fear. 

In the end, he gave in to more human temptations, bracing calloused sailor’s hands on Elias’s slim waist and entering him, pulling them flush as Elias’s head fell back. They groaned in unison, breathing in the shared space between them. Peter’s eyes shut tight, brow furrowed in concentration as he thrust into him, cold, calculated strokes. A mission, then, to bring them both off before the closeness became too much. 

Elias stroked himself leisurely, at odds with Peter’s graceless thrusting. He was, as usual, more concerned with himself. The months at sea hadn’t taught him better manners, that was certain. 

Elias could hardly mind. Pressure built in waves, and he rolled his hips into it. He bit back a moan, digging his fingers into Peter’s short cropped hair. He was...god he was close. 

“Darling,” he whispered, the word catching in his throat. He tried again, firmer. “Peter. Look at me.”

His eyes flicked open for the briefest moment, and Elias caught him. And in turn, Elias was caught. He rocked into each motion, Peter’s hips stuttering now, getting close to that edge. Elias didn’t wait for him, meeting his gaze, pushing into his mind and Knowing a thousand words the other man would never say. It was enough. He cried out, fisting at his cock, desperate to catch the wave of pleasure as it crested and crashed down around him. 

For a moment, he couldn’t see anything, but he could still See. Himself, pressed almost flat back to the desk, spurting across his hand, his stomach, the front of Peter’s shirt. Glowing and glistening with sweat, one hand clamped to his mouth to stifle the sound. And Peter, bent toward him, guiding Elias’s body down to meet his hips as he fucked him through climax. Determined, overwhelmed Peter, losing himself and spilling inside, bruising at his hips, calling his name. 

They lay panting, Elias opening his eyes and returning to this body. Silently, Peter had already begun dressing and tidying himself to leave. 

“How long will you be gone this time?” He went for casual, but it came out a little ragged. 

“Not long, I’d guess. You’ll hardly miss me.”


	21. Sexting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 21: Sexting  
> Annabelle and Helen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m coming back little by little! They won’t all be done by the end of the month, but they will all eventually get done~
> 
> Also Helen is in italics and Annabelle is bold

** Still awake? **

_ For you I can be _

** It’s late **

_ Time isn’t real _

** Sleep is though **

_ Sleep is overrated darling _

The texting ellipses popped up, then disappeared, then popped up again. Helen waited with breath she didn’t need. Of course she knew how this played out—after all, she was the unpredictable element in the equation—but it still gave her a little thrill to watch Annabelle take the plunge. 

**Alright. Let’s do something else**

One of the unexpected benefits of living in/near/as the corridors was convenient access to a bedroom. She flopped back into the discordant patterned sheets.

_ You’re the puppeteer. What would you have me do?  _

Her long, distorted fingers tripped over the tiny keys, but eventually she managed with only a little reality-tweaking. 

Annabelle took her sweet time replying, enough time for Helen to shrug off her shoulder-padded blazer and unbutton her blouse. She ran her sharp hands carefully over the soft plain of her stomach, a ghost of the sensation she remembered from being human. 

** I want to touch you  **

_ Is that all? _

** Whats the rush? We can go slow. Time isn’t real remember **

_ :( _

** I’m going to lay you down right inside your door, kiss you all the way down to the floor **

_ I miss how you taste.  _

_ Want you to bite my neck with those cute little fangs  _

She unfastened her bra in a move that should have been physically impossible in that position. Normally her form blurred at the edges, but she forced it into enough coherence to respond to her light touch. The marks from her last encounter with Annabelle faded almost as quickly as they came; she craved a new souvenir. 

** Touch yourself. Pretend it’s me **

_ I like when you tell me what to do  _

** Will you do it? **

_Only if it suits me_

Still, she unfastened her skirt and slipped it down, skimming a hand over her hip. She closed her eyes. In her mind, Annabelle pressed her into the shag carpet, trailing love bites down her chest. Helen pinched a nipple and rolled it between bitingly sharp nails. Her lover was a biter—she imagined her hot mouth dipping lower. 

** I’m going to get you warmed up with just my hands. Sink my fingers into your thighs. You’re so soft **

** I want to tease you. Tease your clit. Make you say my name **

She hummed to herself, following the path of her words. It had taken practice to bring herself off in this new form, too many angles and too little solid shape. But now she knew the way to shift into something almost real. Already wet, she traced slick spirals against her sensitive skin. She gasped.

With her other hand, she typed a messy:

_ Come out of hiding want you here _

** I’m leaning back so far over the edge of the bed while I touch myself **

** Makes me dizzy **

** When I’m dizzy it makes me think of you  **

_ Next time I’m tying you up in ur web so u can’t leave  _

** Might be into that  **

Helen laughed despite herself. The sound reverberated through the halls, which contracted in time with her pleasure. Patterns shifted along the walls as she arched into her own touch. She had all but forgotten anything else when her phone buzzed again. 

**Damn I miss you. I need to be between your legs open you up get inside you**

_ I can send a door ur way _

** You know that’s not what I meant **

_ Oh? _

** Don’t be difficult  **

_ My love I am difficulty  _

Annabelle was typing, a novel by the look of it. In the meantime, Helen focused all her attention on making her hands passably normal. She dipped two fingers into her core. It would be so much better with the other woman here, body heat and wandering hands. 

** I know a good way to keep that lying tongue busy  **

Helen moaned. The halls spun. 

_Make a mess of me_

_ I want to drum you to madness _

_ *drive  _

She doubled down, snapping her fingers up and riding her hand. It was too much to focus on her phone. She let it rest on the pillow beside her, just close enough to read it.

** Distracted?  **

Annabelle wore a self-satisfied smirk, she just knew it. And hopefully nothing else. Reluctantly dragging her attention away from the task at hand, she replied.

_ We don’t all have eight hands _

A shame, too. They’d feel marvelous right about now, holding her thighs apart, pressing into her, teasing her breasts, pulling at her hair. Surrounding her. 

** Cute **

** You close **

Was it a question, or just a declaration? Either way, Helen couldn’t take the time to reply. Tension built in the wake of her fingers. She rocked against them, lost in the sensation. 

** Wish I could watch you come for me **

She caught the words out of the corner of her eye, just before she shut them tight. The wave inside her peaked, crested, and with a final shudder, washed over her. She cried out, one hand gripping the sheets as they fazed out into bright static. The room lost its shape as she fell, nothing more than a mess of colour and feelings, misfiring like a synapse. 

When she reached for her phone, rolling over and coming back into a more human shape, she saw the texts.

** I forgot how good that is **

** Would be better with you here **

** Still with me?  **

_ Feeling better? I needed that  _

She pulled herself up off the floor. Had she been here the whole time? Instantly she was dressed, curls tidy, mostly adhering to the laws of physics. 

_ Though next time you should call _

** I don’t think I’d last long if I heard your voice  **

Annabelle lacked a romantic streak most of the time, which made this all the sweeter. She smiled at her phone screen, the halls still gently swaying. 

_ Maybe message me... _

Annabelle immediately responded:

** Don’t do it. **

_ On the web :) _

She didn’t text back for a good long while, long enough that Helen had time to make the rounds through some of the twistier corridors. When her phone buzzed, she checked it to see a begrudging:

** Goodnight <3 **


	22. 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See chapter 26 for now

See chapter 26 for now


	23. 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See chapter 26 for now

See chapter 26 for now


	24. 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See chapter 26 for now

See chapter 26 for now


	25. 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See chapter 26 for now

See chapter 26 for now


	26. Swallowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 26: Swallowing  
> Kent Connolly and my lovely friend wildmutfruit’s lovely ghoul OC, Abby
> 
> Abby appears in chapter 3 of this work too

It’s frightening how well she knows him, how easily she reads the expression on his weathered face and picks out exactly the cause. Abby pinpoints the very moment his thoughts loop back around for another round of overthinking, and that’s when she interrupts. 

“You’re thinking about something bad.” It isn’t a question; she knows how he works because it’s how she works too. They live together in that. 

Kent blinks, remembers himself. “I was thinking about you.”

“Gee, thanks.” She sits cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, fiddling with a Grognak figurine. Under her tender care, it had gone from a crumbling, greying prewar artifact, to a replica worthy of serious collections. Abby turns it over absently. 

“No! I mean...I was thinking about us. About how, well, I don’t have much to offer.”

“Kent—“

“I’m being serious. One of these days, you’re gonna realize I’m just some loser. All I’ve got is a room full of comics. That’s all I am. And you deserve better.”

She snorts, pushing herself up onto her knees. Her hands brace on his thighs. “Listen there, mister. Let’s get one thing clear.”

His eyes go wide and seeking.

“No one calls the man I love a loser.” 

It forces a startled laugh from him. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For distracting me. It helps.”

A mischievous gleam overtakes her dark eyes. “I’ve barely started distracting you.” Her hand slides up the inside of his thigh, tracing the seam of his pants. 

Kent gasps and leans back. No matter how often they make love, it still shocks him to the core that she desires him. 

He’s stiffening in his pants before she even reaches for his belt. He wants to tell her how she looks right now, the low light soft on her blonde curled wig, impish smile sparkling. But when she shimmies his pants down and takes him in her calloused hand, he can only say her name. 

The skirt of Abby’s dress pools around her knees on the floor. She works him with clever strokes, enough to make him buck into her touch but not enough to grant him relief. If she shifts just a little, she can rub her thighs together, the slightest hint of friction to fire her up. 

Kent is tightly wound as always, nearly at the edge just from the smallest touch.

“Not yet,” she warns. And then she closes her mouth around the head of his cock, her delicate pink lips in a perfect O shape. 

His own mouth falls open. “C-careful!” Each word trembles, stifled in his sleeve; they have to keep quiet in their little corner of the Memory Den. 

She’s slow and steady as she sinks down, her hands spread on his bare thighs for balance. He’s hot and pulsing on her tongue. The effort has her breathing harshly through the pit of her nose, closing her eyes to focus on him only. 

He clings to her shoulders, breath sounding like a sob above her. “Abby!”

She’s determined to drive him out of his mind, to watch his features pull tight with need as he loses control. Her eyes water as she takes him further. Though he’s not particularly well-endowed, he still fills her mouth, the head of his cock meeting the back of her throat. Abby pushes past her gag reflex, swallowing around him. 

Kent keens, his hands fisting in the blankets. All that he can say is a stream of desperate nonsense, a strained “oh god Abby please yes” on repeat. His voice gets higher and higher. 

She’s full and focused, her throat constricting as she bobs. Spit slicks her lips, running down her chin. For once, she doesn’t care how messy she looks, canting her hips in fruitless circles. He twitches in her mouth; the intimacy has her reeling. Letting go of his thigh, she presses her palm to the outside of her throat to feel her muscles flutter. 

He taps a warning against her shoulder, wordlessly trying to get her to pull off before it’s too late. 

She swallows him to the hilt, choking back her breath to take him all the way. He spills down her throat with a weak cry. 

For a moment, she forgets to breathe. He is hot and trembling above her—inside her—and that’s her entire world, until her chest begins to ache from lack of air. She pulls off, her lips wet and red. 

“How...” she coughs, rough voice now completely hoarse, “How was it?” She fights the urge to rip her panties to the side and finish herself right now. 

She doesn’t get the chance before Kent is helping her to her feet, then pulling her down on top of him on the creaky bed. “Come here.”

He kisses her breathless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still here! Eventually I will get through all the prompts, even if it takes me until next year. Thanks for sticking with it! I love you <3


End file.
